Bearclaw Valley What good to be a god myself, unless things can touch your heart?

The way she moved was like the brother-sister duo except more direct, with the same menacing quality Karst guarded against. He found himself wondering in that indefinite moment between action and reaction, are all people this way?

The wraith wanted something out of him. He knew that without her bidding, without any word or action, because everyone wanted something out of him. Likewise to the children this woman sought a pound of flesh; Karst would have given it if he could, so long as she abated.

Instead she closed that gap and he had to take it. Whatever grip she sought she would have, whatever blood she wished to spill of him would be cut free, and all that Karst could do was take the bludgeon or the teeth or the hateful glare in equal measure. He was nothing—a punching bag, a child made for the sport of the others.

In any case, he did not fight back until he absolutely had to: even then it was a futile effort and he knew it, fearing the snap of his own teeth as they clattered near Astara's close jawline, as if his body were a marionette controlled by instinctual magics. It was only a moment—ignoble and righteous—in which he tasted her hot breath so close.